


there's a poem in every flower

by ofserien



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Like most things I write canon is ignored, Romance, Worried Erik, all these tags and for what, and what of it?, don't worry not as tragic as it sounds im just dramatic af, erik really be the sixth love language, gentle erik, hugging past their bedtimes, isn't even the pain train anymore it's the pain railroad, personally i don't like to deal with my problems, poor christine, so here's a fic about it, some may call it stalking but i call it worrying and walking close behind, the author is projecting again, there's a happy ending i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25950028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofserien/pseuds/ofserien
Summary: Death has consumed so much of Christine's life, and now with Mama Valerius gone, she wants to succumb to that dreadful yearning within her. But comfort comes in strange ways: peculiar gifts, nostalgic lullabies, loving affections. Though Christine has lost much of what she loves, she finds that not all is lost. And through the help of the strange masked man that she almost fears, she learns to breathe again.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 27
Kudos: 33





	1. chapter one

He thought she looked beautiful like this, golden and sad. She hadn’t yet adorned her black grieving dress, the news still minutes fresh, and he rather found that he enjoyed her colorful fashion more than the funeral gowns from those few years back. 

The man dressed in shadows was quiet behind the mirror, watching the entrance carefully, guarding over his weeping, fallen angel. Though he knew loneliness must be an overwhelming emotion in her heart, he understood the significance of being alone, when grief was bare and new. 

She hunches over her little box of memories - a blue birthday gift her strange phantom had given her - and fights back tears. Who else would leave? Was she doomed to a life of loneliness? 

“Mama,” she cries, holding a framed picture of her adoptive mother, Madame Valerius, against her heart, and his own shatters. How he wanted to burst through the mirror, to sweep the girl into his arms and hold her until she could breathe again. He refrains, however. When she needed him, he trusted, she would come. 

“Oh, Christine,” he whispers sadly, as the girl whimpers, holding the frame tighter to herself. 

There was a clamor outside the door, and his shoulders stiffen angrily as Christine jerks away from her things, wiping the tears quickly from her eyes. Surely they must have heard her cries from nearby? Could they not have given her solitude to grieve? 

The footsteps were articulate and graceful, and for a moment, he suspected it was Meg Giry, the blonde who far outshone the other girls in passionate movement. However, from the long shadow at the door, strict and stern, he soon discerned it was Madame Giry. 

“Little one, we were worried. You ran off so quickly we were frightened we wouldn’t find you soon,” she says gently, closing the chapel door that Christine had accidentally left open. 

“She isn’t dead, Madame; she can’t be! I was with her on Sunday, and I quite promise she was well. There must be some sort of mistake,” she pleaded, and the woman crossed the room in a few strides, slowly bending down to the grieving blonde. 

“I am very sorry, Christine,” she murmurs gently, glancing down at the burgundy box, filled with things of M. Valerius and her father, though none so new as the beaded pearl necklace with the gilded latch. 

“It was Mama’s. The Professor had given it to her as a wedding gift,” the girl explains tearfully. “She’d given it to me as a birthday gift after church.”

The ring felt heavy in his pocket, then, and he slipped his fingers into the black material to cradle the diamonds in his palm. Tomorrow evening was her night free from practice, and he’d planned a lavish dinner, filled with her favorite delicacies - he’d dipped the cherries and oranges in the chocolate himself - and planned to stoke a warm fire. He’d composed a rather lovely tune, reminiscent of a nostalgic lullaby, and was excited to share it with her. And then after, he was to bring her to the roof, and give her the ring. Though he was disappointed his plans had been upheaved, his heart shatters for the grief-stricken girl. 

The ballet mistress now had her arms around the soprano as she began to shake again, and Erik forces himself to look away, pain shredding his insides at the sight. “Oh, my poor angel,” he sighs, turning away and returning to his home across the lake, allowing her privacy in the girl’s weakened state. 

It had only been a month since her father had passed, three weeks since the Professor, and now her adoptive mother? Though he believed and thought the world of his blonde soprano, he worried that she wouldn’t be able to bear the weight of the grief. Would her small social circle be enough? 

It was a lonesome way back to his organ, his heart wrenching a million different ways, his mind revisiting times in his life when he’d felt the same. Erik twists the dark onyx around his finger as he stalks over to his instrument, lovingly tracing the keys before setting a fresh parchment before him. He knew very little of comforting another, but music always warmed him and loved him, and he suspected it would be the same for Christine. If he could give her even the littlest amount of peace, then he would. He’d give her the whole world, if he could. 

Instead, he settles on a deep blue ink, carefully scratching out the melodies he forms beneath his fingers. It was in D major, her favorite key, and had a flowing accompaniment beneath a light soprano, which he’d heard so little of. He was careful to leave out the crunch of jarring chords, though he found himself tempted multiple times. But no, this would be sweet and soft, just like his Christine. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He saw her next at the funeral, the sun bright and the air warm, mocking the solemnity of the small group. He watches from behind a grove of trees, overheating in the heavy black material, but ignoring it nonetheless. He was careful to stay hidden, tucked away in the shade and away from clear vision, though Erik couldn’t take any chances. 

He was far enough where he couldn’t make out the words being spoken, but it mattered none, for his focus was on the short girl in the front, her head downcast and her posture wilting like a flower’s. He recognizes the tall frame of Madame Giry holding her close, and the lean form of Meg on the other side, holding the girl up. He wishes to draw closer, to watch the expressions on her face to gauge her exact emotions, but he worries he’ll be heard if he does so. 

As the casket is lowered deep beneath the greenery, Christine rushes forward in a flurry of gold and ink, falling to her knees before the gaping hole and burying her face into her hands, shoulders shaking rapidly. Madame Giry is close behind, kneeling beside her and taking the blonde into her arms, rubbing her back comfortingly. 

After the casket is lowered to its final resting place, many begin to leave, offering their condolences to the orphan. She was turned away from the site, purposely done by the ballet mistress, and he could now read her expressions. She didn’t seem to take kindly to the apologies, fisting her hands into her cloak, though it was a frustration born from sadness, he knew. Erik traces her cheeks and nose and eyes and jaw with his eyes, observing every tick, every wince, every scrunch. She looked exhausted, and he found he wanted nothing more than to wrap the girl in his arms and find her someplace to rest. 

A while later, everyone is gone, and after a few quiet moments, Christine leaves with her friend and the Madame, though Erik waits until they’ve left the graveyard to come out of his hiding place. Brushing off grass and dirt from his sleeves, he comes forward to meet the groundskeeper. 

“You have little reason to be here, old friend.” His tone was warm and smooth and low. Today, his hair was combed back, probably for the ceremony, and wore a similar outfit to Erik’s. 

“Ah, Daroga, that was the girl I spoke of, the one who lost her adoptive mother? My student?” He explains. “Though my affairs are no business of yours. Such faith you always seem to have in me.”

“Forgive me of being wary of your intentions, Erik. And if you’re here, you may as well help,” he concludes, not leaving any room for argument as he shows his shovel at the Phantom. 

“Must I?” He groans, picking up the shovel from refusing to catch it, ignoring the Daroga’s rolling eyes. 

As they filled in the hole, the humidity continues to recede until it’s a cool, autumn night, and quite frankly, beautiful, though Erik had little thought for nature. 

“You care for her, don’t you?” The Daroga says, which momentarily startles Erik. “You care for her perhaps more than you should.”

He blinks, caught off guard, completely frozen, before remembering himself and nonchalantly patting the ground with the head of the garden tool. “I haven’t a clue what you mean. She’s my student, my only student, so obviously I care for her well-being. It’s not as if I can offer my support among other people, Daroga.” Was he truly this transparent? Teaching and composing had softened him, he thinks, almost bitterly.

“I don’t believe you, my friend. I saw you, in the bushes, and the way you looked at her was as if you felt the same pain she did. You looked at her as if she meant everything.” 

“She does,” he says quietly, before scowling at the man. “And what of it? Am I undeserving of such love?”

“You misunderstand my words, Erik.” He sets a hand against the man’s shoulder, and he flinches away. “She is very young, Erik. She doesn’t look a day over sixteen —“

“She’s seventeen,” he grunts, interrupting, crossing his arms. 

“Okay, fine, seventeen — “

“What’s your point, Daroga?” He grumbles, pushing past him toward the tool shed to place the shovel inside. 

“You’re nearly ten years older than her, and she’s just had the rug pulled from beneath her. Tread forward wisely, my friend. I suspect you may be one of the only few around her that can understand.”

And with that, an idea.


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> christine has some sad boi hours, but it's okay erik is on his way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my lovely readers! i hope you enjoy this update :).

The next opera would be ‘La Esmerelda’, he decides, reminiscent of one of Christine’s favorite novels. He wasn’t sure if she was ready to grace the stage as Esmerelda just yet, but perhaps simply being submerged into her favorite story would raise her spirits. 

Their weekly lesson was tonight, and though he considered letting her rest, Erik was loath to sacrifice the sake of routine for her. It was obvious that her heart wouldn’t be in it - and that was alright. It would have to be alright, until the performances came in a few months. 

He tucks the letter announcing the new opera into his jacket, alongside his new dedicated composition, wrapped and tied with a silky black ribbon. He returns the ring to his desk, rubbing his thumb over the golden band before swiftly leaving his home, taking the back passage that allowed him to skip crossing the lake. 

Quickly and quietly, he ascends through the cellars, stopping at the frozen, inky-black hallway, igniting a lantern that hung beside his head. He places a hand over his heart where the parchments are tucked away, close to him, and begins stalking through the strange passage.

He hears her before seeing the girl, humming a haunted tune from the other side of the mirror as he approaches. She looked like a ghost, as if she weren’t quite there, her eyes slanted and unfocused as they gazed at the box, her fingers idly fiddling with the pearl necklace. The girl’s words were slurred and the notes were flat as she slid up a minor scale. He couldn’t gauge which key, only hearing the barest of melancholy sound. No, his eyes were fixed only on her, skimming what little he could see of her features as he drew closer. Though this current state worries him immensely, the Phantom steadies his voice, allowing a tonal resonance to echo around the pink dressing room, booming and dark. 

“Are you ready for your lesson, little one?” 

Her head shoots up, eyes blowing wide, scrambling away from the box and throwing the lid on, shoving it under her bed. Erik didn’t quite understand why she’d hurried to right the box, as if erasing from sight. Did she not want him seeing it? 

“Maestro!” She exclaims, her voice scratchy and dull, though she’d just been humming. He watches as Christine trips over her nightgown clumsily, blushing, and then standing as she lifts the light pearl skirt. Thick stockings adorn her feet, and he grins at the sight of small toes peeking out of holes. “I-I . . . good evening, Maestro.”

“Good evening, Christine. I trust you’ve learned the rest of the aria?” 

Her smile trembles, arching lower on the right corner. “I haven’t practiced since last week, Maestro. I’m sorry.” 

This he already knew. When she visited her Mama, it was often difficult for her to find adequate time to review and study her music. He had assured her, however, and reminded her of how important it was she rests her voice, especially with the ridiculous amount of weekly rehearsals. But aside from that, she would dutifully practice every night, looming by the piano. There, he’d watch her learn the rhythms, hum the notes, and practice the difficult diction. How far she’d come in only a few months - even her young voice made his heart stutter! 

She cowers, as if expecting anger, and he retreats the littlest bit, taken aback by her show of fear. Did he strike that horror in her?

“Oh, my dear, you needn’t worry. The aria was coming along just fine before. Perhaps we’ll review what we learned from last time?” His voice was soft and honeyed, sweetly dripping from behind the mirror. She seems almost on edge, more used to her strict teacher than compassionate friend. Though he always flatters her before and after lessons, he was always firm with her during. Perhaps her angel was being gentle with her because he was aware of the tragedy that had occurred. 

She decides not to mention it. Christine knew without a shadow of a doubt that she wouldn’t be able to speak of it without crying. “I’d like that very much, Angel.”

“Alright. Gather your music and a pencil, and sing on the vowel ‘ah’.”

And so she did, giving a starting pitch on his violin, and he warmed her lower range before ascending higher and higher until she cracks on a high B, and they both freeze. Before Erik could even remind himself of maintaining patience, tears were already forming in her eyes. 

The man drops the violin to his side, and presses closer against the mirror. But what to say? He certainly wasn’t adept in comforting her, or comforting anyone! He decides to start vaguely. “Are you okay, my dear? In the past, you’ve consistently been able to go a few notes higher than a B.” 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, dropping her head in her palms. “I just - I can’t today. It hurts to sing.” The blonde’s voice was small and nasally, and he very nearly offered a handkerchief, if not for the blasted mirror separating them. 

“It hurts to sing? What do you mean? I don’t want you straining your voice, little one,” he questions, cringing at the desperation in his voice. He felt guilty and retched for it, but he found that he wanted the young girl to confide in him. He wanted to be the one to comfort her, though a voice can only do so much. 

“Yes,” she replies, then shakes her head. “No, no . . . It just feels like too much. It feels like I’m giving something I don’t have. And . . . and my throat feels really tight . . . “ she explains shakily, and as she begins to crumble in front of him, he falls to his knees, pressing a hand against the mirror. 

“Breathe, my angel,” he murmurs, desperately wanting to embrace her as she chokes on her deep, ugly grief, weaving around her heart and pulling tight. 

“I wish you were here,” she cries out, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she attempted to control her outburst.

“I am here,” he reassures desperately, palming the glass. “I’m always here, always.” 

“No, I mean, here, with me, with a physical body and not just a voice . . . “ she sniffs, burying her face into her lap. “Oh, you just think me an ungrateful child!” 

“Never, Christine!” He promises. “I could never think such a thing about you! Oh, my dear, come up against the mirror, and press your hand flat against the glass.”

She does so, looking curiously up at her reflection, and he winces at the red ringing her eyes and the mistiness lining her cheeks. 

“Imagine I am the mirror. I am holding your hand, Christine. It is my fingers that are cold, that are pressing against yours. I am here with you, my lovely angel. I am always with you,” he whispers calmingly to her, and she leans her entire body against the mirror, cuddling against it. Erik found his own hand lifting to mirror hers, and desperately wished to feel the warmth of her own. 

“Angel,” she cracks, and he hums the composition gently to her, envisioning his lips pressed against her hair, her ear, her cheek. He was relieved when he saw the tension lessen around her eyes, the crease flattening between her eyebrows, and her body relaxing as he eased her from her grief. It was temporary, he knew, but he hoped it was enough to help her rest properly that night. 

He knew enough about grief to know that it robbed its victim of any rest. 

As she drifted, she slid to the floor, curling around herself until she resembled a golden rug, hair sweeping over her face. 

With a breath and a convincing guilt, he opens the mirror latch as quietly as possible, and slowly, oh so slowly, eases the girl into his arms. 

He gasps as she rolls toward him, the backs of her hands resting against his chest as her blonde head lowers into the space between his neck and chest. She was warm - so warm - atop his fingers, and he desperately wanted to curl around her and hold the girl tightly, to chase away his loneliness and worry and her grief.

The masked man places her on the bed, guilt spiraling in him with the pretty lies he gave her. Blankets were pulled up to her shoulders, and he brushed the hair from her eyes, wiping away the sticky tears from her cheeks. 

“Goodnight, my angel,” he murmurs, placing the composition on the nightstand, next to a fresh, red rose he placed next to it. He grabbed a pillow, and retracted back behind the mirror, sliding it closed. He knelt upon the ground, laying atop the pillow, and stared at the sleeping blonde with gloom clouding his gaze. 

He’d stay there until morning, to make sure she slept restfully. And he feared that if she asked another time if he would appear to her, he would without another doubt. This girl had him wrapped around her finger, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Sweet dreams, little one. I’ll make sure no ghosts haunt them, this time,” he whispers before closing his eyes, and lulling himself to sleep in the darkness.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Maman,” she whispered frantically, and he arose to see her in this box again, roiling through its contents. This time, however, she looked crazed and frantic, as if something startling had interrupted her otherwise semi-peaceful rest. 

Despite his sore shoulders and back, Erik was very much adamant to see what was causing her solemn fit. He longed to raise his voice from behind the mirror and ask exactly that, though he didn’t wish to frighten her. But she began to clench a photograph so hard that her knuckles nearly turned white, even in the darkness, he decided to speak up. 

“Christine,” he spoke softly, and she flinched, gasping and recoiling into herself, knees pulled up to her chest. However, after a moment, her eyes widened, and her shoulders seemed to relax, maybe just so. She almost seemed . . . comforted, he thought. 

“Angel!” She exclaims, and her fingers begin to tremble, and Erik presses himself against the mirror again, palm against the glass interior of the mechanism. 

“Breathe,” he instructs lightly, and she crumbles her fingers together in her lap as her eyes squeeze shut, panting softly. 

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologize, my dear. It’s okay, Christine. It’s okay,” he murmurs, and as if sensing him there, she comes to lean against the mirror, rubbing her fingertips against the pristine glass. It was nearly where his fingers were, and he lowered them to rest parallel, and envisioned their fingertips touching. However, he experiences a larger horror when quiet tears begin to cascade down her cheeks. 

He’d never wanted to hold the girl so badly, to envelop the blonde into his arms tightly, and embrace her until her tears were spent, but the wretched mirror was a barrier between their two worlds, thus it was only his voice that could hold her. Though it was uncomfortable, the masked man crouched down next to her, pressed against her outline. 

“Is Mama Valerius with the Professor and Papa now, Angel?” She asks, her voice cracking, and Erik felt a pain so acute, it was a fracture in his heart that cut deeply. It was a horrible feeling, deciding how to reply. Perhaps he should reveal himself, right then, and end the pretty lies he’d masqueraded for her. It would be painful with or without, regardless. 

He decided to lie. 

“She is happy, Christine. Very, very happy, and she is safe and warm. She’s no longer in any pain, my dear, and wants for you to feel the same,” he replies, voice nearly shaking with effort, but the small, sad smile that painted her mouth was worth every ounce of self-hatred coursing through him. 

How comforted she seemed, by the mirror. He knew, from many nights past, that this was her accustomed place to sleep, to feel close to him, to death. And as she curled further and further into her knees, into herself, into her shell, he whispered sweet things to her, called her beautiful, called her talented, called her wonderful and all of the things that were positively true. 

“What made you so upset, just now, little one?” He murmurs, and she sniffs, wiping away her tears with the palms of her hands. 

“I wish papa were here. I don’t even know where he is buried! He’s so far away . . . “ she inhales shakily, wrapping her arms about herself. “I like to think he’s next to Maman.”

His eyebrows rose as her fingertip traced random shapes on the mirror, all spiraling and curving as his thoughts did the same. She’d certainly never mentioned her mother before, and now that Erik thought of it, he had never even considered the woman! 

“Without a doubt, I’m sure they are resting together, Christine. Now, my dear, it is important you rest, if you can,” he instructs softly, and she leans heavier against the mirror, and he chuckles. “In your bed, Christine. I can’t imagine it’s too terribly comfortable.”

“I feel you there, Angel. Like you’re my reflection - like I can reach out and touch you,” she explains, pressing her palm against the expanse of it. 

“I am wherever you are, my dear.”

“Will you stay close, tonight?” She murmurs, missing the gifts set aside her bed, and crawling beneath the blankets, dimming the oil lamp. 

“I will be. From when you fall asleep to when you awake, I’ll protect your dreams.” 

And with that, she fell asleep, thought restlessly once more, and he drew up another plan within his mind, though this one would take much help and wealth, and perhaps a loathsome visit with the Daroga.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed :)


	3. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the long wait! ive been working on other projects, but i promise i won’t forget about this one :). 
> 
> i hope you all enjoy!

She felt safe while she slept. She was warm and loved, her dreams offering her more than life ever could. She was in the arms of her father, and then her mother was brushing her hair and whispering secrets to her, and she was whisked into the Professor’s arms, laughing as they waltzed around the kitchen, as she’d done for her sixteenth birthday the previous year. And then, one of her most cherished feelings of Mama Valerius’s hand holding hers tightly, and her gravled voice bidding her goodnight, every night. 

Grief didn’t exist here, and neither did pain. All she found were heaps of boundless memories, joyful and vivid and lovely, each as fresh as the next one. Nostalgia was a fleeting emotion, emerging for a black, dark second before melting away. She was so tired of sinking, and she finally felt afloat. 

That is, until Madame Giry awoke her. 

And most everything came flooding back. 

“I’m exhausted, Madame,” she whispers, rubbing her eyes. “Can’t I sleep a little longer?” 

“It’s nearly twelve in the afternoon,” the woman tells her, and Christine’s eyes widen. “It’s time for lunch, dear. We don’t want you wasting away into skin and bones.” 

In all honesty, she was hungry, and a cup of tea with cheese and crackers sounded marvelous. But the mere though of leaving the bed . . . She felt so heavy. Like she was a million pounds. 

She didn’t want to move.

And she didn’t feel her Angel close, either. 

She felt sick with hunger, and her lips were chapped and dry, but despite this, it was nothing compared to the numb, knawing pit inside of her.

Madame Giry cast a nervous glance towards the mirror before glancing back at the staring girl, whose eyes were fixed and glazed on the ceiling. “Come on, dear girl. I won’t have you starving to death.” 

Something dark and sardonic bubbled in her throat and she laughed at that, at the simple measures of death in every-day language. How her every-day was so tainted with the black of despair and grief. 

She promised never to speak of death so casually ever again. 

Madame Giry was a tall woman, regal and almost royal in quality. She was stony and cold, and yet, Christine buried herself into her side with an arm was offered to her, and she craved a parental affection that’d been so scarce from her for quite some time now. How long has it been since father had died? Eleven months? 

She ate alone with Madame Giry, unwilling to be with anyone else, friend or not. The cheese was delicious, and she’d even been slipped some sweet tasting juice, and she felt some small sort of joy at the consumption of food. After, she felt tired again, as if it’d been some long sort of work. 

“I don’t think I can dance or sing today, Madame,” Christine admits, circling her finger around the rim of the cup, collecting droplets of moisture on the pad of her finger. “I think a nap would do me good.” 

“No doubt, I’m sure. But instead, perhaps some knitting? I could show you how to fix your dress you ripped the other day,” the woman offers, and the blonde shrugs, seemingly indifferent. 

So unlike Christine. 

“Sure, Madame. May I do so in my room? Where it’s quiet?” 

“Of course, dear. Now, come along, and I shall fetch my sewing supplies. I will have someone pick up your own, if you’d like.” The offer was sweet, and though she honestly wasn’t sure if she’d ever use it, Christine nodded anyway. 

They walked back to the room, the blonde feeling slightly light-headed, as if she were about to be sick. Madame Giry helped her change into a clean, comfortable dress, allowing the girl to go without the corset and the rest of the restricting clothing. 

“Don’t climb back in bed,” she murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Stay sitting upright for a little while. Perhaps some light reading? Or there’s a piano, in the chapel, if you’d prefer that.” 

For once, music was the last thing Christine wanted to do. 

“I’m fine, Madame. I’d just like to rest,” she whispers, and the woman nods, standing and fighting her posture. 

“I’ll be back soon, and perhaps we can go outside after? It’s quite chilly, but the sun is brilliantly shining today.” 

She shrugs, almost feeling irritable now, simply wanting to be alone. “I suppose.” The sooner the Madame left, perhaps her Angel would come! And he would surely know all the answers to her questions. Maybe he would even allow her to speak with Mama Valerius! 

After placing a blanket around her shoulders, she left the room for the next ballet practice that Christine estimated to be in fifteen minutes. 

She folded her hands in prayer, but just then, she spotted a book, placed by her nightstand, crisp and new and barely cracked. Her eyes widened as she stepped closer, finger tracing the outline of the cover. 

It was the newest edition of ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’. And though she was pleasantly surprised, she knew it must have been from her Angel. None of the other ballet girls had time to retrieve a copy, even Meg . . . And Madame Giry had been with her the whole time. 

It was strange that her Angel was able to grasp hold of something material, something earthy, but it mattered nonetheless as she took the previous artifact into her arms. The girl held it loosely and gingerly, as if it were a child, and carefully opened it, relishing the small crack upon flipping open the hard cover. 

It was then, on the other table across the room, she noticed a pair of black, leather gloves. 

And upon inspection, felt the warmth that can only come from skin, and a scent that can only come from a man. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He’d hoped that, upon arrival, he’d find Christine either reading the book he’d purchased, or learning the composition he’d dedicated to her in the chapel. But instead, he found her on the couch, facing away from the mirror, her shoulders tight and wired. 

“Christine,” he announces himself, coming up behind the mirror and throwing his voice across the room. He saw her perk up, almost excitedly, yet almost immediately, he saw her fingers clench around the arms of the cushions, knuckles growing white. 

Was she . . . Angry? 

She stood up, then, back still facing him, and Erik saw her shoulders tremble. “Where are you?” 

“What on earth do you mean, child?” He replies, fighting to keep his voice even. He wished she’d turn around so he could read her expressions, but she remained stubbornly turned. 

“Come on out from wherever you’re hiding, then.” And with that, she spun in a slow circle, though her eyes were unfocused, so she truly didn’t know where he hid. But his thoughts were cut short at the sight of his leather gloves in her hands. 

His bare palms became clammy, and he gulped, eyes blowing wide. 

Madame Giry was going to murder him if Christine didn’t first. 

“Come on out, then, Angel.” His heart sunk at the sound of tears invading her voice. He thought about simply persuading her he truly was an angel, and the gloves weren’t his, but it was much too late, and she was much too clever. 

And he was much too tired of this same old lie. 

Her eyes settled in his figure as the mirror slid open, and in the darkness, he was simply a black, shadowed figure, dressed in blindness. But as he stepped forward, illuminated now by the sun streaming in from outside, his features became more apparent. 

There was a mix of emotion of her face, something akin to shock, resentment, relief, and perhaps even joy. 

He was unsure of what to say, but at the sight of tears dripping down her face, and her hands trembling with the leather gloves locked tightly in their grasp, he stepped forward, her name on his lips. “Christine -“

“Don’t,” she says harshly, and he stops, arms stretched toward her, though they now fall to his side. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tired, and he wondered if she’d been crying for some time now. 

“Let me talk first,” the girl begins, and they stay frozen, though he feels her eyes surveying his figure, taking in the fine dressing, the mask, the ring, everything else adorning him. 

“I don’t know who you are, other than you’re a man who preyed on me, at my lowest point. You took my grief and wove yourself into that story, pretending to be something that connected you to my father. It’s sickening, Monsieur, and I haven’t a clue why’d you do such a thing, but you also seem to live within the walls, so I suppose it can’t be too surprising.” He flinches at her words, and she continues on, her voice becoming higher and higher as emotion seeps in. Despite this, he remains quiet and still. 

“But I’m not going to call the police, nor tell anyone of this,” she finishes, her cheeks now a mess of grief and moisture, dribbling down her neck and chest. “Because, in spite of it all, you saw a girl burdened with perhaps the heaviest weight she’ll ever have, and helped her turn that grief into something beautiful. And even as I stand here, unable to see past death, I still have a reason to live. When my father died, he took my music with him. And you gave it back.” 

His eyes widened as she wiped her eyes, and he fiddled nervously with his fingers behind his back. He wasn’t worried about the police, as he’d evaded their reach many times. But he was anxious for her, anxious for her sorrow, and he sincerely hoped his masquerade wouldn’t end her musical ambitions. 

“I . . . I always wished you were a man, too. I imagined you . . . Well, a bit different, but a man nonetheless. How I yearned for your touch, for your comfort, past your voice and words and lessons.” She wipes her eyes again, the leather gloves now captured in one hand. “And now I have it. I have you, but I have more lies as well. You’ve given me a gift, yet stripped me further of a relationship that mattered most to me. Yet, in light of that revelation, I must be the most foolish girl in the world, because I still yearn for your friendship.”

If he wasn’t so startled and shocked by this encounter, he could have sobbed at her acceptance. She’d wanted an angel - not him. And yet, she still spoke of him, like he was her friend. 

And he was. He’d be whatever she’d want him to be, so long as she was safe and smiling. 

“You aren’t foolish, Christine,” he replies, and her eyes flick up to his, hearing his voice for the first time without the booming acoustics and the grandiose, holy tone. “You are completely blameless. You . . . “ his voice trembles, and he clears his throat. “You have every right to be angry.”

“And yet, I can’t find it within myself to . . .” She begins, and then a shiver eclipses her figure, long and withdrawn, something so unlike to the cold. 

Lifting a trembling hand toward him, he mirrors her, raising his own in return. A small gasp leaves, and perhaps his lip wobbled when her hands grasped his, holding it in between her palms. 

“Angel . . .” She murmurs, rubbing her fingers over his own, exploring every crevice of his hand, and he desperately tries to cease its shaking. 

“Christine . . .” He wanted to tell her he was no angel, that he was furthest from that, but the look of her face was some sort of peaceful elation, and comfort was illuminated in her expression and body language as the sun’s light passed over her. 

She’d flipped his hand over, skimming a finger over the more sensitive skin there, and he shivered, before she stepped closer, holding his hand between hers, resting it against her chest. 

“How long I’ve wished for you to have a physical form. And despite the lies, you’ve buried yourself so deeply in me that even in my darkest moments, I can’t help but run back to you.” She’d pressed herself against him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist and turning her head into his chest. 

He feared he would cry, or perhaps sob aloud if he opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find it within himself to hold her back. Erik couldn’t remember the last time he’d been embraced - if ever - and his fingertips barely skimmed her shoulders. 

“I know you aren’t an angel, but I can't bear to lose anyone else. And though they were under inappropriate circumstances, I’ve told you more about myself than perhaps anyone knows. And I only have you, Meg, and Madame Giry. I don’t think the other ballet girls like me very much.” 

Her voice was a soft murmur, and he couldn’t believe she was touching him, embracing him — actually touching him. 

“Oh, Christine,” is all he can say, holding her back now as she buries her head against his chest. 

“Oh, your voice! So it is you!” 

She was shorter, much shorter than him, by far, and barely came up to his shoulder. He wanted to touch her hair, her cheeks, her freckles, but he did not, simply allowing her to take whatever she needed from him. 

And, in the back of his mind, he knew she’d eventually face the lies and be angry, beyond angry with him, but for now, he’d be whatever she needed him to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christine really pulled the plug on this one huh 
> 
> also, i made the chapter count a little longer! 
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed :). let me know what you thought in the comments! <3

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so excited to begin this story! i am projecting it to be on the shorter side, but i wanted to take a little break from 'only for you'. there's also little to no fics of erik comforting christine (or erik comforting anyone), and i feel like it shows a lot of character growth. so, this fic was born :). 
> 
> thank you so much for reading. i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please don't hesitate to leave a comment/kudos. it means the world to me to read through them :).


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